


A Dream Is A Wish

by tumtatumtum



Series: Cowboys & Russians [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Smut, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Making Love, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Spies & Secret Agents, That fic everyone did so I want to try
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:48:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tumtatumtum/pseuds/tumtatumtum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon dresses slowly, as if the seconds between each button could delay the inevitable.  It’d be ridiculous if Illya hadn’t been taking two minutes to put on his socks.</p><p>OR </p><p>The obligatory "what happened before the balcony" scene</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Always

**Author's Note:**

> SOOOO MANY EMOOOTTIIOOOOOONNNNNSSSS
> 
> Future chapters will be more one shots from the same 'verse

Napoleon dresses slowly, as if the seconds between each button could delay the inevitable.  It’d be ridiculous if Illya hadn’t been taking two minutes to put on his socks.

 

Napoleon was on the edge of the bed, in the middle of the mattress.  Illya was on the same side, but seated on the corner of the mattress.  They hadn’t spoken since, but the silence was not because they had nothing to say.  Rather, the silence was a necessity- they had too much to say to each other. They made due with sitting together, stealing glances and delaying the inevitable together.

 

Napoleon could still scarcely believe what had occurred.  Yes, Illya and he had worked well together.  Yes, it had been an incredibly successful mission.  Yes, Napoleon had frequently admired his temporary partner’s tall, lean frame.  Yes, he had reminisced about what Illya would be like as a lover- would the giant be gentle, caressing him tenderly while they breathed each other’s air?  Or would he be rough, leaving bruises on Napoleon’s hips and making him beg for release?

 

The answer, it had turned out, was both.

 

\-------------------

 

After Napoleon had returned Illya’s watch (and prevented his own murder), they had begun negotiations over what to do with the tape. Both parties had agreed that neither side should have that sort of power, so the only obvious conclusion had been to destroy it.  Illya had remained unconvinced of this answer.

 

“May need it later.”

 

Napoleon had rolled his eyes.

 

“I may need an Astin Martin later to show up a certain ’00 agent, but that doesn’t mean I should keep one on standby.  The technology may surface again, Kuryakin. We’re only delaying the inevitable.”

 

Illya’s eyes had snapped to him at that point, and Napoleon had swallowed and turned away to fix himself a glass of scotch. He ignored how his hands uncharacteristically shook during the pouring.  He almost jumped when a slightly larger hand covered his own, and he felt the unmistakable warmth of another body close behind his own.

 

“Is only short solution.  Soon, one side will win, no matter what we do.”

 

Napoleon closed his eyes and enjoyed the warm breath on his neck, the whisper in his ear.  He rocked back ever so slightly on his heels, until he knew they were almost touching.  His entire back felt hot, scorched from the heat coming from the Russian.

 

“That’s then.  We can have right now.”

 

There was a large hand then on his hip, branding his skin.  Napoleon set down his scotch on the table and allowed himself to lean fully back, _finally_ touching Illya from head to toe.  He kept his eyes closed and savored the way they seemed to fit.

 

“Hmmm, convince me, Cowboy.”

 

Napoleon had smirked then, turned around in Illya’s arms and yanked on his shirt collar, grinding against Illya’s half-hard cock and murmuring in his ear,

 

“Oh darling, that’s what I’m best at.”

 

\-------------------

 

“Convincing enough, Solo.  You may burn tape.”

 

Napoleon raises an eyebrow as he continues to struggle to knot his tie.  His hands are shaking again, a tell that is frustrating for multiple reasons. Mostly because it renders his stoic, aloof mask completely useless.

 

“Glad to see diplomacy may yet work between our two countries.”

 

Large hands once again cover his own, and Napoleon allows them to push his own hands to the side and begin tying a knot. He refuses to look up and meet Illya’s gaze, however.  Instead, he keeps his focus on breathing evenly, swallowing as fingers capable of so much destruction carefully craft a perfect Windsor knot.  He swallows as a stray thumb lingers on the side of his neck, and steels himself for the unavoidable.

 

\------------------

 

They had not stumbled together into the side bedroom like Napoleon had fantasized about a few (dozen) times, a fit of passion overtaking them.  Instead, Illya had stared intently and longingly at Napoleon as they walked together into the room. They had been facing each other, moving in a halting dance as both refused to look away.  Napoleon’s hands had been on Illya’s wrists, squeezing tightly to make sure Illya would not move his own hands away from their spot on Napoleon’s body (one hand still on his hip, one hand splayed across Napoleon’s left shoulder blade).  Illya had stopped them a foot away from the bed, then began efficiently stripping Napoleon on his last defense- his clothing.

 

Illya had finally looked away then, allowing Napoleon to breath for the first time since they had begun.  It wasn’t a good sign that he already felt lost, overwhelmed by the onslaught of emotion and desire that he had carefully kept locked away before now.  Illya wasn’t helping, as he began to place gentle, feather-light kisses upon every new part of skin revealed  to him. Napoleon bit back his whimpers successfully until Illya began biting him as well, then soothing the skin with his tongue.

 

Napoleon groaned then and desperately wished his skin would mark.

 

Illya had nipped his ankle when he had removed Napoleon’s socks and allowed him to step out of his trousers, and Napoleon had laughed sharply at the playfulness.  Illya had looked up at him again, smiling softly.  Then he had smoothly rolled his body up Napoleon’s until he was standing at full height, still fully clothed.  Napoleon was now breathing heavily.

 

“Undress me.” The command was uttered quietly, yet Napoleon still hurried to obey.

 

He had done so with hands that trembled when they were not pressed to Illya’s cold skin, skin that was firm and dusted with blonde chest hair.  Napoleon meant to hurry the process along, but he could not help the reverent way his palms swept across Illya’s chest, how his fingers pressed and kneaded firm muscle wherever he found it.  He couldn’t help but press his face to Illya’s flesh and simply breath in the scent of his Russian lover, mouthing at Illya’s collarbone, hip, and shoulders with no thought to pattern or seduction.  He was simply overwhelmed by his lover’s naked form, and he knew he was helpless to conceal his awe and adoration.

 

Strong hands had gripped his shoulders when he had sunk to his knees and buried his face into the thatch of hair at Illya’s groin, cock now fully hard.  Napoleon had looked up, dazed, as Illya frantically yanked him to his feet, growling low as he latched his teeth to Napoleon’s neck, sucking a bruise and whining into his skin.  Napoleon had gasped and swayed on his feet, and they had both fallen into bed together.

 

Then Illya had looked up from Napoleon’s neck, and moved to kiss Napoleon.  Napoleon had…he panicked.  To kiss Illya would destroy him, he was certain. 

 

To kiss Illya would mean Napoleon would not be able to let go of him.

 

So Napoleon had wriggled up and flipped over under the guise of getting the slick from the bedside table, handing it haphazardly over his shoulder while presenting his ass enticingly.  There had been a pause, before he had been shoved angrily into the bed, face first as terrifyingly strong arms held him down while propping his ass up.  Then Napoleon had heard the pop of a cap, and allowed the fireworks of lust to override any remorse he might have for a lost kiss.  He gasped in anticipation when Illya hissed in his ear,

 

“ Then I will not give you gentle, Cowboy.”

 

\------------------

 

Illya was being gentle now, as his hand was tenderly tracing Napoleon’s swollen lips.  He had bitten them in a useless attempt to silence his groans as Illya had viciously and thoroughly prepped him with his large, calloused fingers. They were throbbing and red, and Napoleon still refused to meet Illya’s stare as he pressed down with the pads of his fingers.

 

“You use this way before, Cowboy?”

 

Napoleon knows he should lie, knows he should try to spare them both the idea that this could be more than what it has to be. He still shakes his head and kisses the pads of the fingers, not trusting his voice.

 

Illya nods his head in response, then cups Napoleon’s face in his large hand.  Napoleon is forced to look up as Illya applies gentle pressure to his jaw, and he meets Illya’s gaze for the first time since they began to dress. Ice blue eyes meet his own sea-storm stare as both seasoned professionals are undone in one look. It lasts less than a few seconds, and both men will remember it for a lifetime.

 

Napoleon looks away first, unable to bear the weight of the moment.  Slowly, giving his American lover time to move away, Illya leans in.  He presses a soft kiss to Napoleon’s cheek, and both men struggle to breath for a moment.

 

Then Illya releases Napoleon’s jaw and offers his hand to the other man.

 

“No fire alarm on balcony.”

 

\------------------

 

When Illya thrusts into Napoleon for the first time, Napoleon lets out a cry that is more ragged than he would have liked. He cannot help it, but Peril is perfect at this.  He knows his hips will indeed have bruises, his chest is covered in sweat, his neck is covered in possessive bites.  His ass is already pleasantly stretched, and with Illya inside of him he feels….not complete.  That’s too much for what this is.  But he does feel filled, he feels whole.

 

There’s no small part of desperation in the way he immediately begins to thrust back, frantically fisting the sheets and arching his back like a cat.  He curls his toe and tries to press back, but Illya just grunts and holds him still, clearly needing a moment for composure.  Napoleon is having none of that.

 

“Come on, Peril, fuck me already!”

 

Illya just shoves him back into the mattress harder, then reaches his arm around and tugs Napoleon up.  It’s effortless how fast he goes up, despite the resistance Napoleon tries to bring.  They end up on their knees, Napoleon tilted back with his back in a bow, Illya’s arm caging him in like a steel bar.  The similarities between their current position and how Illya had almost strangled him in the green bathroom are not lost on either man. Napoleon groans as Illya’s cock hits him wonderfully deep, and Illya bites a mark in Napoleon’s shoulder to keep from cumming.

 

Then Napoleon begins to move, and Illya must think he’s trying to get away because he digs his teeth in and slams Napoleon back down onto his cock.  Napoleon lets out a startled whine, and feels Illya smile into his shoulder.

 

Oh, that won’t do at all.

 

Napoleon smiles back and raises his hips, only to be slammed back down again.  Illya swivels his hips when he reseats Napoleon on his lap, and Napoleon can’t help but reach one of his arms back to grasp Illya’s hair.  The reaction is instantaneous, as Illya moans and begins to thrust up and in ferociously, pounding into Napoleon’s hole while placing kind, caring kisses on his neck and shoulders.  Napoleon closes his eyes tight as he allows the sensations of pleasure to wash over him, skin alive as his nerve endings light up in ecstasy. Illya’s cock is big and brushes over his prostate with nearly every thrust, filling Napoleon up and making his bones ache in pleasure.  His hole is squelching and wet, his legs burn from the exertion of forcing himself down, forcing Illya into him.

 

He’s never gotten it this good, it’s never meant anything like this.  Illya holds him like he’s simultaneously a threat and something he never wants to let go. Napoleon clings to Illya like he’s viciously claiming his prize or about to surrender himself completely.

 

There’s sweat between their bodies and the noises they make are obscene, the slick adding to the cacophony of debauchery in the room. Napoleon feels himself nearing completion, and a moment of panic overtakes him because not now, it’s too soon, he can’t let this end yet.  He tries to slow his hips, tries to get some refuge from the pounding his ass is taking but Illya just adjusts his hold and shoves two fingers into his mouth, searching and claiming all at once.

 

Napoleon’s eyes roll back in his head as he screams around them, cumming untouched onto the bed before him.  Illya tenses as he does, giving two long, slow strokes before he too is cumming into Napoleon’s spasming hole. Both men collapse forward and to the side of the puddle, panting for breath and clinging to each other.

 

Both know they’ll never get to hold each other this way again.

 

\----------------

 

Both men watch the tape burn while keeping a respectable distance.  Neither trusts themselves to get too close- there’s too much crackling between them.

 

“It’s been terrible working with you, Peril.” Napoleon quips.

 

“ _I will never forget you.  I will never forget what we might have had.”_ He thinks.

 

“You’re a terrible spy, Cowboy” Illya shoots back, allowing himself to indulge in some vodka.

 

“ _You would have been the joy of my life.”_ He thinks.

 

Their heads turn as Gaby and Waverly enter the room, and both men listen in stunned disbelief as their allegiances shift with one meeting.

 

\-------------------

 

Napoleon doesn’t seek out Illya that night. Illya doesn’t go to Napoleon’s room either.

 

\-----------------

 

Neither of them do anything for weeks. They’re still waiting to see when this will all fall apart.  Happy endings of this sort don’t occur in their business.  But weeks turn into months, and by the time fall comes around Waverly announces that the team is on “permanent loan” for the foreseeable future. 

 

By the time fall comes around, Napoleon knows how Illya takes his tea (he won’t drink coffee).  Bu the time fall comes around, Illya knows which socks Napoleon wears with which pair of shoes. 

 

By the time fall comes around, Napoleon has started to look Illya in the eye again.

 

\-------------------

 

In the end, it’s a bullet grazing Illya’s eyebrow that makes Napoleon act.  Half an inch to the right and his Red Peril would be no more.  Napoleon waits until Gaby has finished stitching Illya up while sipping his coffee and blatantly staring at Illya’s face.  Gaby magnanimously refuses to notice, but she does snap at Illya to stop squirming in his seat.  Gaby leaves with a peck to Illya’s cheek and waves goodbye to Napoleon, who merely nods as she exits the room.

 

Then Napoleon gets up slowly and moves to stand in front of Illya, who is watching Napoleon like a wary tiger.  Napoleon reaches his hand forward to lovingly caress his partner’s cheek, and looks him in his eyes the entire time. Then he leans in, eyes searching to an answer to his unspoken question.

 

 _Stay with me_.

 

Illya’s face is hard, but his eyelids flutter close as he finally presses his lips to Napoleon’s in answer.

 

 _Always_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just two spies having misunderstandings and being in love. It's the schmoopiest thing I've ever written.

This entire situation with Napoleon surprised Illya.

 

Neither are the type to form attachments. Napoleon takes whatever catches his eye, the thrill of the hunt and the satisfaction of victory his driving ambition (this is what got him caught in the first place). Illya never had anything of his own to become attached to after his world was turned upside-down at age 11. Everything belonged to the state, even his life.

 

Neither man learned the kind of love that takes devotion.  Neither man was interested in having a weakness as obvious as a long-term lover.

 

And yet Illya had found himself enamored from the beginning. 

 

He was drawn to Napoleon in a way that was almost hypnotic.  The man should have only infuriated him.  To be sure, the American did cause him frustration and headache, but he also inspired the opposite emotions in Illya.  Illya would find himself staring at Napoleon’s face, mesmerized by the lines of his jaw and the valley of his cleft chin.  He would puzzle for days over Napoleon’s behavior at times, how he could shoot a man for a watch but refused to shoot Illya when he chased him down in a car.

 

His lover was a man of beautiful contradictions. Illya’s treatment of Napoleon was a reflection of this.  At times he would caress his partner tenderly.  He’d spend minutes, hours kissing Solo’s body everywhere, lapping at the salt that stuck to his skin.  At other times Illya held Napoleon so tight he heard his bones groan, left bruises on his skin.  They had had more than one fight that ended in a tussle, and while neither ever threw a punch there were a few suspicious elbows (Napoleon tended to fight dirty)

 

And yet there was nothing and no one Illya had ever treasured more.

 

It was completely unexpected.  He was not a man that formed attachments, and he did not understand why or how this came to be.  But Illya does not care.  Napoleon is his now, all his and his alone.  He will treat his Cowboy however he wants.

 

\----------------

 

The way Illya treats Napoleon at times astounds Napoleon.

 

He knows that Peril can be charming. He had seen it at times with Gaby, and sometimes in the field when tall, blonde and handsome was the mark’s type. For a man whose job is to lie for his country, Illya is devastatingly honest in his charm and his affections. Napoleon has never doubted for a moment that he means the world to Illya, and he knows Illya sees enough of his character to realize how precious he is to Napoleon as well.

 

That still doesn’t explain the way Illya treats Napoleon.  Sometimes it will be small things.  He’ll pick out Napoleon’s tie whenever Napoleon allows it, will tie it around Napoleon’s neck slowly.  The act is more erotic than it has any right to be, one lover dressing another. Yet Illya will gaze at Napoleon with such concentration, such naked adoration while he does it. He strips Napoleon with his gaze, leaving him bare and defenseless against the feelings neither of them should have.

 

He’s seen Illya’s hands steady while wielding a knife through a man’s heart.  He’s also seen Illya’s hands shake as he holds Napoleon when they dance in the privacy of their rooms, swaying back and forth together.  Those hands should not be gentle upon his body, and to be fair at times they are not.  But Napoleon knows that Illya is definitely spoiling Napoleon, and Napoleon…

 

Napoleon is confused.

 

\--------------------

 

It started small.  It was the little things that bring the strangeness of Illya’s actions to the forefront.

 

The first time Illya drapes a blanket over Napoleon while he’s reading on the balcony terrace, Napoleon stares at him incredulously. Illya resumes his own reading in the chair opposite Napoleon and doesn’t notice his partner’s disbelieving stare for a good 5 minutes, content to sip his tea and enjoy _Crime & Punishment_.  Finally, Napoleon sets his book solidly on the table and speaks,

 

“Aren’t you chilly too, Peril?”

 

“This is spring weather in my country, Solo. But Americans are fragile, you might catch cold.”

 

“The last time I checked, you weren’t my mother.”

 

Illya smirks,  “Considering what we do, I certainly hope not.”

 

Napoleon scoffs, then gestures towards the light pink blanket draped lovingly over his shoulders.

 

“The last time I checked, I was a highly skilled agent. A man who made himself into the most daring and successful thief in the world.  I think I can manage a bit of a nip in the air.”

 

“Yes yes, you are strong, big boy.”

 

“That’s not-“

 

“You don’t want blanket?  Take it off.  At least then you let me read in peace.”

 

Napoleon huffs and fiddles with the frayed hem of the material.  Then he leans back and picks up his book from the table, opening to the page he left off on with a sigh.

 

Illya gives a soft smile and sips his tea.

 

\----

 

“What is this?”

 

“Breakfast.  You can tell, there are eggs and ham.”

 

“I know it’s breakfast!  Why are you bringing it to me in bed, Illya?”

 

“I was not gentle with you last night. Thought you could use rest.”

 

“As you’ve pointed out, I’m a big, strong boy and I do not need- are those strawberries?”

 

Illya nods and smiles, placing the tray by Napoleon’s knees, which are hidden by the covers.  Napoleon is seated by the headboard, arms crossed but his expression has turned sunnier since seeing the berries.  Illya sits next to him on the bed, between Napoleon and the tray. Then he reaches over and places the bowl of berries in his lap, plucking up the ripest strawberry and holding it out for Napoleon.  Napoleon frowns and tries to snatch it away, only to have Illya move back.

 

“Relax, I will feed you.”

 

“I’m not a damn child.”  Napoleon reaches for the berry again, and Illya yanks it out of reach once more.

 

“You strain yourself.  Let me.”

 

Napoleon glares at Illya.  Illya meets his anger with calm patience, and the reversal of their usual positions only infuriates Napoleon further. Then his stomach rumbles.

 

Illya smiles in victory and holds out the strawberry. Napoleon sighs and crosses his arms, opens his mouth and allows Illya to feed him bite after sumptuous bite.

 

If he nips and sucks at Illya’s fingers while he does it, then turnabout is fair play.

 

\----

 

“No.  No, absolutely not.”

 

Illya looked up from where he is seated, confusion on his face.  Napoleon had a long and exhausting day of tailing a rat through Paris, which was a lovely city but absolute murder on one’s Oxford shoes.  So when Napoleon had thrown himself onto the couch with a groan after he had debriefed Gaby (who had left to inform Waverly), Illya had settled himself on the opposite end of the couch.  Then he had picked up Napoleon’s feet and begun to untie his shoes before his lover had protested.

 

“What is wrong, _kotik_?”- Pussycat

 

“Are you about to do what I think you’re about to do?”

 

Illya looks at his hands, which hold Napoleon’s left dark brown leather shoe.  The laces are halfway untied, and Napoleon’s other foot is in his lap. Illya looks back up at Napoleon.

 

“Probably.  Problem?”

 

“This isn’t- why have you been doing this?!” Napoleon erupts.  It’s probably the long day of chasing a thin, disgusting man throughout half of Paris, up and down more flights of stairs than he could count.  It’s probably the tear in his suit from the third mugger who tried to take his wallet (the rat had gone through the best neighborhoods). It’s probably that he hasn’t eaten all day and he refuses to admit that he’s hungry around Illya anymore, because the blonde giant will fuss over him and feed him.

 

The blonde giant continues to look at him with a confused expression.  Napoleon continues,

 

“The blankets whenever it goes below 75 degrees out? The constant feeding and fussing? And now massages?! Who are you trying to fool, Illya?!?”

 

Finally Illya’s expression changes. He looks angry at first (he always is when Napoleon starts shouting), then he just looks… sad. He lets go of Napoleon’s foot and abruptly stands up, leaving the room in a huff that’s a complete façade. Even the door slam he gives only slightly rattles the windows.

 

Napoleon stares after him and then flops back down, pouting and angry.  Gaby chooses this moment to enter the room again, and as she passes by Napoleon on the couch she reaches out and flicks his ear.

 

“Ow!”

 

“Can’t you let Illya have something nice for once? Or do you have to ruin that too?”

 

“This is not my fault.  He treats me like a damn child!”

 

“He treats you like he cherishes you, idiot. How many chances do you think he’s had to spoil someone he loves?”

 

“He doesn’t-“

 

“I swear to God.  If you tell me he doesn’t love you, then you really are an idiot.” Gaby exits the room to go to the kitchen, no doubt about to make herself something for a late dinner. Napoleon stares at the ceiling and wonders what the odds are that she’ll fix him something too. Then he sighs and gets off the couch, off to find his Peril and find out what’s really going on.

 

It’s not hard to track Illya down.  There’s an almost imperceptible level of destruction in his wake, but to the trained eye it’s a neon sign leading towards the Russian. The slight rumple of a carpet where a heavy foot slammed down in anger, the slight bend of a railing where a large hand clenched too tightly…

 

Soon Napoleon finds himself on the roof, where his lover is leaning over the railing and gazing out along the city of crepes and art. He’s wearing his grandpa hat and a jacket, properly prepared against the elements as always. Napoleon sighs and blows on his hands, rubs them together as he approaches his Russian bear.

 

“It’s chilly out here.  Got a blanket for me?”

 

Illya’s scowl deepens.  He moves to go around Napoleon and towards the door, but Napoleon steps in front and holds out his hands in a placating gesture.

 

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry.  That one was uncalled for.”

 

Illya still looks angry, like he doesn’t want to believe Napoleon but does anyway.  He gives Napoleon that look all the time.  Napoleon gives a charming smile and gestures towards the railing where Illya had just been brooding.  Illya follows Napoleon cautiously, until they are standing side by side, taking in Paris and leaning against a dirty iron bar.

 

Napoleon hopes Illya appreciates that he’s ruining his shirt for this touching moment.

 

“What’s got your borscht all sour?”

 

“You have had my borscht.  You like my borscht, is never sour.”

 

“You know what I meant.”

 

“Sometimes I think not.  Sometimes I do not know why you say the things you do.”

 

Napoleon glances over at Illya, more than slightly alarmed.  No one knows him as well as his lover.  He’s never allowed anyone so close, yet Illya has squirreled his way under Napoleon’s skin despite Napoleon’s best active efforts to keep himself distanced. He clears his throat and tries to keep his tone light,

 

“Honestly Peril, don’t be so dramatic.”

 

“A Russian is never dramatic.  You are the one with…flair.”

 

Napoleon raises his eyebrows.

 

“ _Flair_.”

 

“Yes.  Flair.”

 

“I see.  So because I’m some sort of Nancy boy with a lot of _flair,_ you have to treat me like some wilting flower?!” Napoleon is yelling again, but he doesn’t care.  He shoves a finger in Illya’s chest, continuing,

 

“Just because I happen to like getting fucked does not mean you have to treat me like I’ll break, Commie.”

 

Illya takes two hands and shoves Napoleon’s shoulders, sending the shorter man stumbling back a few steps.

 

“I did not mean in that way, American. I never…I don’t care about that!”

 

“Then what the hell is your problem?!”

 

“You!”

 

“Well, I can fix that quickly!”

 

Napoleon’s the one to slam the door this time. He hopes he succeeds in locking Illya out on the roof.

 

\-----

 

Napoleon is feeling terrible by the time Illya makes it back to their room in the wee hours of the morning.  Around midnight he had cracked and gone back up to the roof to let his Russian in from the cold, only to discover that Illya had long since escaped.  He’s been waiting by the door ever since, watching the door in his bathrobe and consuming an appropriate amount of scotch.

 

Illya slips in through the door quietly, shutting the door in a considerate manner.  He freezes when he sees Napoleon seated at the armchair, guilt all over his expression. Napoleon’s stomach drops. He takes another sip of scotch,

 

“Done anything I should worry about, Peril?”

 

Illya shakes his head earnestly, and Napoleon allows himself to believe.  Illya continues to creep into the room, until he’s standing before Napoleon. He towers above Napoleon, but Napoleon can’t help but feel like judge, jury & executioner in his armchair. Napoleon tilts his head in a manner Illya knows means “ _Explain yourself_ ”. Illya takes the next few moments to compose himself, stealing Napoleon’s glass and finishing off the last few gulps himself.  He finishes and wipes his mouth with his sleeve, then squares himself for the good fight. Napoleon’s eyes widen as Illya delivers his speech quickly and succinctly,

 

“I could never have something like you in Russia. Even if I wasn’t agent, we could not be together.  Cannot be together in real world either.  So in private, I like to be with you.  Isn’t this how people be with each other?”

 

It starts off strong, but by the last sentence Illya’s tone has become insecure and pleading.  Napoleon is out of the armchair in an instant, holding Illya in his arms and cuddling the Russian to him.  Illya folds himself into Napoleon, who runs his hands down his lover’s back and presses kisses into his hair.

 

“Even after all this time, Peril.  How do you stand me?”

 

“Is not easy,” comes the muffled reply from his robe, and Napoleon smiles gently.  It’s his “Illya smile”, and only Illya brings it out of him.  He hums and holds his lover tight, swaying to a rhythm only they can understand.

 

\----------------------

 

Illya doesn’t think twice when Gaby tells him to meet them on the roof of another hotel room in Rome.  It’s been nice being back in the city where they all met, though Illya won’t admit to anything like nostalgia.  They’ve been focused for too long on a mission involving sinister wine dealers and a deadly strain of sour grapes. Napoleon assures him the whole thing has been both ironic and hilarious.

 

As he enters the roof, his hand instantly flies to his gun as he takes in what is definitely _not_ a debriefing session. 

 

The roof is lit in simple white lights hanging from green string.  Gaby is dressed in a stunning short electric blue dress, Waverly next to her in a matching tie. Napoleon steps forward, looking particularly dashing in a simple charcoal grey suit and black tie. He has a rose in his vest.

 

Illya glares at Napoleon and holsters his gun.

 

“You about to do what I think, Cowboy?”

 

“Probably.  Problem?”

 

Illya doesn’t reply, instead choosing to step forward and into Napoleon’s space.

 

“Why?”

 

Napoleon sighs and takes in his lover. His silly grandpa hat, his ridiculous turtleneck that seems to always hug his form just right.

 

He looks at the man he’s chosen to spend the rest of his life with and congratulates himself on once again on having exquisite taste.

 

“Because when I see you, I think ‘My husband’. Why not make it official?”

 

Illya smiles his “Napoleon smile” and takes his Cowboy by his hand.

 

\-----------------

 

 _Kotik_ \- Pussycat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY'RE SO CUTE........

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr! We can talk and stuff!
> 
> http://www.versus21.tumblr.com/


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